


can't count the years

by counterheist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, F/F, M/M, Pie, Pining, Waffles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 12:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: A local magazine featuresMila’sas the best breakfast spot in town one year after it opens. The opposite page is devoted to a pie shop Mila has heard of, but never been to.Easy as Piegets a paragraph of text and three photographs. One shot is a slice of blueberry pie, another is of hands kneading dough. The last one is of a woman with long, dark hair and olive-toned skin holding an armful of large blue ribbons.Sara Crispino, the caption reads,owner and baker at Easy as Pie holds all six of her National Pie Competition blue ribbons.Mila drives over the same day she sees the article, as soon as the breakfast rush ends.





	can't count the years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cutthroatpixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutthroatpixie/gifts).



> for zike, late as always, but with enough waffles and not waffles to make up for it i hope. unbeta’d.

“You doin’ okay down there?” Mila asks. Setting down a stack of flapjacks, she leans both elbows against the horizontal window that connects the kitchen to the rest of the diner. She stabs another order slip onto a sharp spike embedded in the window ledge, and slaps the bell to remind Yuri and Georgi they’re paid to serve the food she makes and not to stare off into space. Georgi rustles over, all long strides and nearly-shed tears, to carry away the pancakes and a pot of coffee.

Mila takes a moment she doesn’t have in the middle of the morning rush to breathe.

“Hey,” she tries again.

Seated directly across from her on a stool at the counter is one of their weekday regulars. A slouchy, dark-haired guy. He’s been coming in for years, but he still looks surprised whenever anyone who works there recognizes him or remembers anything about him. Mila makes a point to remind him she likes him every time she sees him. He’s one of her favorite regulars, even if his orders sometimes make her stomach turn.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” she calls, snapping her fingers in the direction of his face. She’s too far away for him to get the full effect, and she tells herself that’s why he continues to stare down into his mug of coffee like he sees the face of the baby Jesus in it.

“Fatso sent his screenplay to a studio yesterday,” Yuri says, approaching Mila’s window with his arms full of dishes and his lithe teenage body full of impenetrable angst. “He's preparing himself for what he thinks is the inevitable rejection.” He slides the grey tub full of dirty dishes onto the window ledge even though she's told him a thousand times not to do that. He doesn’t wring the sass out of himself either, even though she’s told him to do that ten thousand and six times.

“Don’t say such things to our beloved customers, pretty little Yuri, or you’ll never grow any taller.”

Yuri hisses at her. He hates when she brings up his height and his looks. He hates when she calls Customer Yuuri ‘Yuuri’. He hates most things. Of course, he _is_ sixteen.

Stomping over to stand in front of Customer Yuuri, pretty little teenage Yuri slams both palms onto the counter on either side of Customer Yuuri’s arms. That, finally, gets Customer Yuuri’s attention. “Hey!” Yuri barks. Customer Yuuri jerks back. Blinks an abbreviated, wrung out code for _what the fuck_. “You suck, Fatso,” Yuri snarls, “you suck _so much_ , but the things you write _don’t_ , so if you’re going to share my name and associate it with your sadsack lack of confidence I’m going to _punch you_ so _stop it_.”

By the end of his speech, Yuri has one knee up on the counter and his nose one inch away from Customer Yuuri’s. Mila gives him one, maybe two seconds.

One.

Tw-

“Ugh!” Yuri screams, throwing himself back with all the furious propulsion of a cat held out over a bathtub full of water. Mila’s about to congratulate him for not actually scratching anybody’s eyes out, but before she can he’s disappearing through the kitchen door in a huff and returning in a greater huff, holding what looks to be the beginnings of someone’s order of waffles with bacon and eggs over easy. She remembers getting the eggs and the waffles onto the plate before she moved to get the finished plate of pancakes out of her way.

Yuri’s dumped a ladleful of strawberry jelly right on top of the eggs. Ugh indeed.

Yuri sets the plate in front of Customer Yuuri and shoots the rest of the diner a look that dares them to comment on his extremely inappropriate behavior. Unfortunately for his sense of dramatic timing, no one is paying attention. They’re used to Yuri’s antics by now if they’re regulars, and if they aren’t regulars they’re too busy inhaling the food Mila’s made for them and coming to terms with their new waffle-themed religion. Mila is something of a breakfast queen in these parts of town. She’s proud of that.

 _Mila’s_ is the kind of place everyone leaves satisfied, and she’s worked hard to make it that way. It’ll never stay that way if her servers keep giving away free meals.

“Pretty little Yuri, you fragile baby bird,” Mila singsongs. “Yuuri only ordered coffee and pie with bacon grease today. I hope you’re going to pay for the meal you’ve stolen from table three?”

Customer Yuuri frowns. “I could pay for b-”

“No,” Mila says. That is that.

“Fuck you, _fine_ ,” Yuri grumbles. He drags the word out into three syllables. _Fi-yuh-nuh_. Sometimes Mila forgets Yuri is sixteen. This is not one of those times. “Here!” He jams his hand into his front apron pocket and brings out a bursting fistful of crumpled tips. He sets them moodily down onto the counter and makes to storm away.

“Uh uh,” Mila tuts, “You know where the register is, little baby bird.”

He storms back.

He snatches up the tips, crumpling them further.

He carefully presses the correct sequence of buttons to open the register, because Sasha is a delicate clunky boy and the last time Yuri punched him it took two days to get him working properly again.

He places 16 dollars and 54 cents into their correct trays in Sasha’s well-organized innards, all while not breaking eye contact with Mila. She pantomimes wiping a tear away from the corner of her eye, but she really is a bit proud of him. Yuri memorized the register so quickly. Much more quickly than Georgi.

“Uh,” Customer Yuuri says after Yuri has retreated to his 15 minute break in the alley behind the diner, “is it okay if I eat this?”

No one tells him yes, because Georgi is busy writing his phone number on the back of table 7’s receipt in the hopes she’ll take it and call him and fall in love with him and kiss him in the rain - she’d have to leave her husband first, but Georgi is unaware of this detail - and Mila is back in her kitchen and too busy to respond. No one tells him yes, but no one tells him no.

He starts to eat.

Five minutes later, just as he’s getting to the good runny sticky bits, the front glass door quietly opens and shuts in a way that, somehow, demands attention.

Georgi stops pouring coffee.

Mila sticks her head out the orders window.

Customer Yuuri freezes, a sloppy spoonful of jammy eggs halfway to his mouth.

Viktor slides the sunglasses from his face, flicks them shut, and hangs them from the center of his v neck. “I’ve found it,” he declares to the waffles and everyone, “everything I never knew I ever needed. _I’ve found it_.”

* * *

When they are nine, next door neighbors Mila Babicheva and Viktor Nikiforov watch shooting stars from the edge of Viktor’s roof. Mila’s parents are fighting again. Viktor’s parents are inside pretending they aren’t fighting again. The boys at school keep trying to cut off the ends of Viktor’s hair. The girls at school keep _whisper whisper_ whispering about Mila when she’s just too far away to hear.

But the stars.

“I want to be a star someday,” Viktor whispers. It’s a moment made for whispering, or it is inside Viktor’s head. He has whole selves wrapped up in there that Mila has never met, waiting. Waiting behind smiles practiced in his bathroom mirror and carefully-planned displays of happiness. He’ll be a star someday for sure.

“I want to own my own restaurant,” Mila says, pillowing her head in her arms. “I want to cook.”

They are each other’s best friend when they are nine.

They are each other’s best friend when they are nineteen, and Mila can’t get a loan from the bank by herself and Viktor can’t stop fiddling with the ends of his waist-length hair.

They are each other’s best friend when they are twenty-nine and going in on the diner together, partners.

“Let’s call it _Mila’s_.”

“Well we couldn’t call it _Viktor’s_. Nobody would ever go there unless they had someone they needed to poison.”

“Exactly.”

They are still best friends when they are thirty-two and Viktor quits waiting tables at the diner to focus on his modeling, and then his acting, and then his overall popularity.

They are still best friends when Viktor saunters into _Mila’s_ one morning after Yuri’s had a tantrum and declares he’s fallen in love, though sometimes Mila wonders how and why.

* * *

_Everything I Never Knew I Ever Needed_ , it seems, is a thick sheaf of papers bound together by industrial staples. Viktor produces it from within a manila envelope he’d been carrying underneath his arm. When he does, Customer Yuuri chokes violently on a spoonful of jammy eggs. Georgi slaps him on the back until he stops. Viktor offhandedly passes him a glass of water.

“I took it from Yakov’s desk while he was lecturing me,” Viktor explains to a rapt Georgi. The parties at tables two through six fail at pretending not to be listening. The woman at table twelve starts taking pictures of Viktor with her phone. Mila, when she gives up ignoring Viktor and steps out of the kitchen, sends them all her dirtiest look.

“What is it?” Georgi asks, hearts rising in his eyes.

“My love.”

“Looks like papers to me,” Mila says. She steps around the counter and hopes no one was expecting prompt service today. Between Yuri’s earlier outburst, Georgi’s distractibility, and Viktor’s presence…

“They are papers penned by my love,” Viktor caresses said papers, “Yuuri Katsuki is a genius, and his screenplay has shown me all the life and beauty and hope I've been missing for so long. I am in _love_ ,” he sighs dreamily.

Three stools down, Customer Yuuri chokes violently on a mouthful of water. Georgi slaps his back again. This time it does not appear to help.

“Katsuki,” Georgi taps his finger against his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve heard that name before.”

So has Mila. Yuuri Katsuki is the name Customer Yuuri signs on his receipts whenever he forgets to bring enough cash to cover his meal. Customer Yuuri, who writes. Customer Yuuri who, according to Yuri, sent off a screenplay just yesterday. Mila pats her cheeks to check if she has a shiteating grin on her face.

She does.

Trust Viktor to fall for the words of someone he’s seen and served and glossed over for years. Mila’s never going to let him hear the end of it.

“Yuuri,” she chirps sweetly, “Isn’t that your full name? Yuuri Katsuki?”

Everyone turns to look at Customer Yuuri, who is still red-faced and gasping from his recent brushes with asphyxiation. His eyes are wide and dark and very, very nervous, and when they meet with Viktor’s Mila feels like she’s an extra in a movie about two men looking back on their sixty years of marriage to pinpoint that first moment they looked into each other’s eyes and _knew_. She’s happy for Viktor, she really is - he’s her best friend, even if he did leave _Mila’s_ in a pinch when he went and got famous - but _Mila’s_ is her queendom and she’s not about to be a nameless background character in it.

“Viktor,” she says, “don’t you have something to say to Yuuri?”

“I,” Customer Yuuri says. He does not finish his sentence. He shoves himself away from the counter and runs into the bathroom.

Viktor chases after him, shouting, “why didn’t you tell me how beautiful you were sooner!”

The diner descends into a cautious quiet after they leave, half unsure whether it’s okay to ignore all of that and go back to eating, half trying desperately to hear what’s going on in the bathroom. The atmosphere is only set back to normal after Yuri plods in through the back door, break finished. “The fuck is wrong with all of you?” he asks, retying his hair. “And where’d Fatso go?”

* * *

Mila’s favorite type of food to cook is breakfast food, particularly waffles. It reminds her of the easy parts of her childhood - summer mornings with her grandparents, lazy Saturdays when her mom felt like eating something nicer than cereal, getting up early to make breakfast for Viktor after his parents kicked him out - and it allows her to add obscene amounts of butter to every recipe. So even though _Mila’s_ is now open from 6am to midnight, Mila rarely works anything but the morning and late shifts. Customers _can_ order breakfast food all day, but not nearly enough do.

She allows two other cooks into her kitchen when she is gone, but she only likes one of them. Otabek Altin is clean and quiet. He can put up with Yuri’s moods and he can read Georgi’s handwriting. He is her second favorite person to have in the kitchen with her, though by necessity their time rarely overlaps.

Her favorite person only appears in the early mornings.

“And then,” she says, flipping another chair over from where it had been resting on its table all night and setting it on the ground, “our little Yuri threw an entire container of yogurt at Viktor’s head. He missed, but the top was off so it got all over Viktor’s shirt.”

“Poor kid,” Sara laughs. “But it’s very nice of him to care so much about Yuuri’s feelings and how your Viktor might easily damage them.”

Mila quirks her head, a chair easily balanced in each hand.

“Well you know Yuuri’s had his crush on your Viktor since time began, hm?”

“I do,” Mila replies, “but how did you?”

Sara knows because she knows Yuuri. He rents an apartment above her pie shop with one of her employees, and sometimes he even lugs around flour sacks or helps package pies into boxes. He and his roommate, an aspiring lifestyle consultant and full-time pie server named Phichit, get drunk with Sara and her brother on Christmas Eve because none of them have anywhere else to go. He started coming to Mila’s diner to eat Sara’s pies because, while eating them directly out of the oven downstairs from his own apartment would be easier, _Mila’s_ had Viktor.

Well damn.

“Plus,” Sara laughs, “I would never let him mar my pies with the things he likes to put on them. Mustard? Bacon grease?!”

“I can’t believe it,” Mila says, settling down onto a chair. Sara’s sitting on top of the counter and Mila has to stretch her neck up to look into her eyes. Normally Mila hates it when people sit on the counter, but Sara has favorite privileges.

“It’s true!”

“I can’t believe it never came up before. I can’t believe the odds: that when Viktor falls in love it’s with a customer, and that customer lives above your shop, and you’re my pie supplier.”

Sarah’s smile twists into something - not less, not more - different. “Pie supplier and friend,” she says, swinging her long legs back and forth.

“And friend,” Mila agrees.

* * *

A local magazine features _Mila’s_ as the best breakfast spot in town one year after it opens. The opposite page is devoted to a pie shop Mila has heard of, but never been to. _Easy as Pie_ gets a paragraph of text and three photographs. One shot is a slice of blueberry pie, another is of hands kneading dough. The last one is of a woman with long, dark hair and olive-toned skin holding an armful of large blue ribbons. _Sara Crispino_ , the caption reads, _owner and baker at Easy as Pie holds all six of her National Pie Competition blue ribbons._

Mila drives over the same day she sees the article, as soon as the breakfast rush ends.

 _Easy as Pie_ is cuter than it looks on the outside, with whitewashed brick walls and clay tiles on the floor. The end of the long space is dominated by an enormous display case that has to hold at least twenty pies. Someone with dark hair and a white apron is futzing around with a fancy, shiny, complicated espresso machine behind the front counter. Mila doesn’t know why she feels so disappointed when he turns and he’s, very clearly, not Sara Crispino.

“Welcome to _Easy as Pie_ ,” he says, “what would you like? As long as it’s not coffee. I’m no barista, but I think Mickey missed a few parts when he put this thing,” he knocks a fist against the espresso machine, “together.”

His frankness reminds Mila a bit of Viktor, although his charm is more subtle. She laughs. “I couldn’t begin to help you with that,” she says, “but I _would_ like to try some of your pie. What would you recommend?”

He looks ready to launch into a memorized list of pies his boss wants him to push, or maybe he really does have favorites, but before he can another voice interrupts him. “Try the blackberry crumble,” a woman wearing an airy red blouse and a spotless white apron says, walking out of some back room. Her skin is darker than it had looked in the magazine photo, but Mila still recognizes her. Sara Crispino. “The blackberry crumble with whipped cream.”

Mila does.

And then the next afternoon she tries the caramel apple crunch, and then later that week the french silk.

She comes back at the end of the week after Sara’s closing time to talk business. “Business” turns out to be a tasting of every pie Sara has ever made, all laid out in the expansive back kitchen. Mila sets up shop on a stool in front of a thick wooden table where Sara rolls out all her own crusts. Sara ties a long cloth napkin around Mila’s neck and sets a glass of water by her right wrist.

“I want you to be able to make the fairest assessment possible,” Sara says. She places plate after plate of small slices in front of Mila. Mila eats it all.

Each bite tastes better than the one before, until Sara places a slice of her signature blueberry lattice and a clean fork in front of Mila.

It’s.

It’s not just better.

“ _Hnnng_ ,” Mila groans, swallows, fans herself. “It’s so _good_. It’s like my mouth just had an orgasm. I need a nap and a cigarette and, and what else, god, I don’t even know, _wow_.”

Sara’s breath hitches and she starts to say something and then hastily stops. But then she laughs loud and long and asks Mila to go into business with her.

Mila accepts.

* * *

They make an arrangement. Mila serves Sara’s pies and promotes Sara’s shop. In exchange, Mila doesn’t sell anyone else’s pies or make them herself. It’s an easy deal for Mila, who achieves pure bliss whenever she eats one of Sara’s pies, who doesn’t know how to make one herself anyway. “Why would you need to know how when you’ve got me?” Sara asks early one Sunday morning while delivering pies to the diner.

“What if you want to take a vacation?” Mila says, “See the world?”

Sara tsks. “I’ve seen it. Or enough of it for now. But if you really want to know I suppose I could give you a few lessons.”

Mila does not have enough time for pie lessons. Mila doesn’t have enough time to check out library books, or go to the grocery store before she’s run out of everything, or even to go see Viktor’s movies while they’re in theaters. (Viktor sends her copies with pictures of himself and Makkachin looking desperately sad. Somehow Mila doesn’t have enough time to vacuum, but Viktor always has enough time to teach his dog how to appear despondent on command. Actors.)

Mila doesn’t have time. Mila says yes.

Still, it takes a few months for anything to come of it, long enough that Mila almost forgets about it completely. She’s too wrapped up in the daily drama of _Mila’s_. Georgi gets a new girlfriend and then loses her, very publicly, after he asks her to move in with him and she dumps a glass of orange juice over his head. Pretty little Yuri - Yura, now that Yuuri is no longer Customer Yuuri - takes on more shifts and starts staying later and later to complain to Otabek about how awful Viktor is and how he’ll never be good enough for Fatso.

Viktor stops by Mila’s apartment a little more frequently to make up for spending all his time at the diner gazing into Yuuri’s eyes and ignoring Mila completely. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it’s different. A time in their lives has passed forever, Mila can feel it whenever she brings a completed order to the window and sees Viktor feeding Yuuri forkfuls of pie at the counter.

“Is that key lime and,” Mila wrinkles her nose, “steak sauce?”

Georgi takes a plate piled high with bacon and nothing else. “It is,” he clutches his chest with the force of his emotions and also his free hand. “Viktor opened a new bottle just for Yuuri and poured it himself. They’re so _romantic._ ”

Funny. Romance hasn’t made Mila want to hurl since she was seven years old and running away from boys on the playground. Or maybe since she was seventeen years old and kissing the prom queen underneath the bleachers, a little too drunk, a little too high, a little too absent of anything else until the prom king wandered over and joined in.

She gives Viktor crap about it when he stops by with Makkachin to watch Chopped on her night off. “You and Yuuri are something else,” she says, making up a plate of cold cuts for herself and Makkachin, and a monstrous concoction of raw eggs and flavored protein powder for Viktor. “You’re going to get me a health code violation.”

“I’ll get you out of it,” Viktor waves his hand, half to brush off Mila’s teasing and half to get her to hurry up and sit down on the couch next to him.

Makkachin whuffs.

Mila rolls her eyes, but settles in. Watching cooking competitions together is one of their traditions, like telling each other secrets and driving out somewhere dark to watch the stars. She likes coming up with something better than the competitors on the show; Viktor likes feeling justified when contestants are forced to use the same odd ingredients he would throw together of his own free will.

“I’d rather not get cited in the first place,” Mila grumbles.

“Yes, yes,” Viktor says, “now watch what she’s doing with the gummi bears.”

They watch, and they eat - well, Mila and Makkachin eat - and they catch up.

“So you never even knew Yuuri’s name until that day you found his screenplay?” Mila asks. A sous chef from Chicago cuts himself on screen. He gets blood all over his rhubarb compote in a candy cane reduction. Amateur. “Didn’t he always sit in your section when you worked at the diner?”

Viktor winces. “He never looked at me!” he protests.

“So you never looked at him?”

“I don't waste my time on people who don't like me,” Viktor sniffs, running a silver-backed brush through Makkachin’s fur, “you know that. And I thought he didn’t look at me or speak to me or really acknowledge me other than to mumble about coffee and pie because he didn’t like me.” He pauses, the dopiest smile Mila’s ever seen in her life spreading over his face like tea on a tablecloth. “He’s so _beautiful_ when he mumbles.”

“He’s so _bea-utiful_ when he mumbles,” Mila mimics. “Oh Vitya, no.”

“Oh Vitya _yes_ ,” Viktor says. “...I heard him tell Phichit I’m his muse.”

Mila pulls a decorative pillow covered in little roosters to her chest and squeezes it tightly. “I’m happy for you. I really do mean that, Vitya.”

“I know you do.”

They go back to watching chefs crack under pressure. A judge tears the sous chef from Chicago apart for completely missing any acidity in his main course. Also for the blood. Mila would normally snicker, but all she can think about is what Viktor’s found for himself, and how maybe, finally, she wants something like that for herself too. Maybe. Not steak sauce and key lime, but… something.

“I wonder what it feels like,” she says to Makkachin’s fluffy, empty head, “to be somebody’s muse.”

Viktor snorts gracelessly.

“What? You can't say _you_ don't enjoy it.”

“That’s not it,” he shoots back. “I think everyone would enjoy being someone’s muse. Especially _Yuuri’s_ muse.” His eyes go distant, then return. “But you're not as far away from being one as you think.”

Afterwards he refuses to explain himself.

* * *

They arrange to start Mila’s pie making lessons on a Tuesday at noon.

“No, no, don’t bring anything,” Sara says that morning at dawn. “Just yourself. I’ll see to lunch. Phichit will take care of everything out front, so we shouldn’t be bothered.”

Mila brings some waffles anyway. “All right, Miss Piemaster,” she says once Sara’s gotten her into a spare apron, hands washed and ready, “teach me.”

Sara gives Mila that look again. The one she sometimes sends Mila’s way, the one Mila can’t quite figure out before Sara breaks it with a laugh.

They begin with the crust - chilled flour, chilled bowl, chilled everything. At least a pound of frozen butter. In the years she’s known her, Mila’s never thought of Sara as an ice queen, but it appears she has to be. The best pastry crusts, Sara explains, are made at the lowest temperatures. Mila dislikes the cold; her domain is fryers and stovetops and steam. Mila likes the sweltering heat.

Sara drops an ice cube down the back of Mila’s shirt when Mila explains why she’s stopped shaping her portion of dough into a ball in order to frown at the freezer.

“Ahh!” Mila shrieks, “ _Sara_! You _ice monster_!” She jumps up and begins chasing Sara around the room, shoving prep tables and stacks of crates out of her way as she goes. Sara has the speed of her long, long legs on her side, but Mila has her strength and her uncomfortable, melting fury.

“You’ll never catch me,” Sara yelps as Mila almost closes a buttery hand around her waist.

“If I didn’t like you so much I’d revoke favorite privileges for a week!” Mila shouts. “Two weeks!”

“No you w-” Sara runs, but in the end she isn’t fast enough. Mila catches her elbow and pulls. They overbalance. She and Mila land on the floor in a floury heap.

They’re closer than they ever have been, legs tangled and chests touching, and when her eyes meet with Sara’s Mila feels like she’s the lead in a movie about two women looking back on their sixty years of marriage to pinpoint that first moment they looked into each other’s eyes and _knew_. Breathing in sharply, she waits.

“You know,” Sara whispers, “I didn’t believe it either. That when Yuuri finally allowed himself to be loved it was by your Viktor.”

Mila blinks. “What’s so surprising about that?”

“I loved you first.”

Sara’s giving Mila that look again, but this time Mila understands it for what it is: cautious fondness, banked desire. And this time Mila accepts how she feels about it.

She welcomes it with a kiss.

* * *

There’s a slice of lattice blueberry pie waiting for Mila at her regular booth when she walks into _Easy as Pie_ after her morning at _Mila’s_. There’s also a Sara, which is more of a surprise, though twice as tasty. Mila would say it out loud, but she doesn’t want to turn into a Viktor. She loves and is loved, yes, but she doesn’t have to be insufferable about it.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” she groans after her first bite, “I would have started dating a piemaker sooner if I knew it meant so much free pie.”

Sara shrugs, fingers steepled beneath her chin. “That’s fair,” she says, “since I’m only with you for the waffles.”

“You _tart_.”

“I do tarts too, yes.”

Mila groans again, not quite like that last time.

“You know,” Sara says, a mischievous look in her eyes, “the first time you ever ate my blueberry pie you said it was like an orgasm in your mouth.”

It takes a moment, but Mila remembers. “I did because it’s true. This pie is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Is it,” Sara flicks her tongue out against her upper lip. “Because if you want to be reminded what a _real_ orgasm in your mouth is like, I would be happy to help you.”

* * *

It’s convenient how Sara also lives in an apartment above her shop. It’s awkward, true, when Mila - pantsless - steps out of Sara’s office and meets Viktor - shirtless - in the hallway, each holding half full tins of a different pie. Blueberry in Mila’s arms, caramel apple crunch (with mayonnaise?) in Viktor’s.

It’s a little less awkward when they give each other a congratulatory high five before disappearing into separate apartments.

**Author's Note:**

> _Yuri looks up from his phone to see Fatso walk into the diner wearing a lavender v neck sweater that’s a little too large for him and stinks of Vetiver 46 Eau de Parfum and wheatgrass._
> 
> _Sources later say his screams were heard the next town over._
> 
>  
> 
> So at first I thought of this as set in St. Petersburg, Florida, which is my favorite place to set yoi fics when I am too lazy to un-Americanize them. But then I made Viktor an actor so probably this takes place in southern California. But if you want to think of Viktor as a billboard model for local mattress stores and an actor in St. Pete dentist office commercials that would also be grand.


End file.
